


The Piano

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures, The Midnight Crew - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Not Humanstuck, Sadstuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-29 07:41:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8481208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Slick finds a piano in the Felt Manor. (someone probably did this already...but whatever...i wanted to write it.......)(inspired by the song "Three in the Morning (Aftermath)")





	

You never thought you’d make it here again.

On some aimless, brooding pilgrimage, stalking the putridly green corridors, the discovery of the piano was a strange surprise. Despite not knowing exactly what you were looking for all these nights you’ve spent on restless patrol, you feel that this is it. The row of alabaster-white keys looms at you in the darkness, broken up by strokes of onyx that blend with the shadows. It’s the last thing you expected to find in this house of uncultured idiots--a beautifully polished and seemingly untouched grand, a shining presence at eight, perhaps nine feet in length. At first sight you found yourself drawn to it, drifting almost unconsciously to the cushioned seat, like a spectre following its own footsteps over the weary years.

You never thought you’d make it here again, and yet, here you sit once more.

The room housing this majestic beast of an instrument is a ballroom of sorts, hugely expansive, vaulted ceiling barely visible in the dusky light. It is silent, the only source of luminescence the light from the hall that streams in through the massive door that you left open, and you can hear the deep _whoosh_ of your lungs as it seems to echo out into the endless unfilled space. It’s odd to be nostalgic now, with the sheer unfamiliarity of your surroundings pressing down on you, but you’re retreating to some inner place, a faded memory like an old photograph. The living room of the hideout, the smell of cigarettes and coffee. Sitting at your battered upright with your cohorts idly chatting, or beginning to play along with the mindless noodling of your fingers on the keys. It takes you away from here, into a sad kind of comfort, away from the thickly frigid smell places get upon disuse.

Your fingers brush the cold ivory, and the smallest of smiles graces your face. The old upright at home seems caught in ancient times, as if having existed in another lifetime. One where you were young, though then you felt as if you couldn’t get any older. Back then, you’d always dreamed of replacing that upright with a grand, a gorgeous concert piano like this one. Habitually, you tap out a scale, the clear peals of the hammers on the strings dancing in kind vibrations along your carapace. Yes, you’d always wanted to, but there was no fucking way you and the Crew would be able to get one into the hideout, no matter how much ingenious finagling you four attempted. _Ironic_ , comes the unbidden thought. _Ironic that you have your wish granted now, in the house of your enemies._

Your face falls, suddenly stony. You begin to play.

For a few minutes, you try out a multitude of different tunes, fumbling. You’d forgotten the thickness of your robot arm, and you despise the lack of grace you find yourself working with. In significant contrast, your eye latches you vision onto each key with almost annoying accuracy. It’s giving you a headache. Nothing feels right. You stop. _Maybe_. Thinking a moment, you proceed into a piece as old and familiar as the thought of that upright is, jumping to it with an almost forced excitement. Three in the Morning. Certainly favored, if you had to pick any to be such out of the pieces you’ve written. Played at the end of a set, concluding a night of making music with the boys at the hour it was named for, Boxcars’s bass would thrum silkily behind the sharp and dark sound of the piano. But it sounds a little lonesome by itself, so you slow, fingers hovering uncertainly, before turning to a modified rendition. One penned long ago on some sleepless night characterised by whiskey, and eyes dry and tired.

Awkwardly faltering in and out, you travel with the cascading notes, body swaying as you track your progress through a half-lidded eye. Through instinct, your feet find the pedals, and the realization that they’re just as clumsy as your sham of a replacement hand hits you in a wave of vicious frustration. With fury, you try and bring the feeling back to the music, the feeling of some memory close to lost. Your hands plunge down angrily, metal desperately attempting to keep up with flesh and blood, but the passion you dimly recall is entirely absent. It’s replaced by something new, off-kilter, emphasized by the occasional wandering onto a note unknown to the original piece. It’s not the ode to the night you’d created before. It’s bitter, hollow, frighteningly empty. The tone haunts you, rattles you as your fingers fly with undisciplined emotion, and you’re trembling now, pretending not to know why. Barely thwarted thoughts drive you to play ever faster. All you want is to drown, to dive in and drown yourself and never come back from the land where your music sounds like it did before.

But there’s really no way to drown it. To out block the keening reminder in our heart that you’re playing this alone.

The music softens, and it’s brimming over with anguish, just as you are. There are tears gathering on your one scarred eyelid, painting a single side of your face while the other lies dry and emotionless. You’re rushing, holding your breath, trying to not cry out, because you don’t want hear your own voice bouncing back to you from the wall of the deserted ballroom. A few quiet notes end this travesty, lingering in the aftermath of your catastrophic self-destruction. It’s silent once more.

Then you cover your face almost violently, elbows coming down with jarring discordance onto the keyboard. The shaking has increased tenfold, and as you see the faint shine of dampness on your unfeeling bionic limb you snarl, slamming the fallboard shut. The startling white vanishes; you rest your forehead with a _click_ on the ebony-varnished wood that hid it away. _I_ _gotta_ _keep it together. They can’t find me_ _like_ _this_.

You’re gulping down air as if you never have before, as if air is the sweetest thing you have ever tastesd. Your hands grip the edge of your hat, crumpling it in their crushing grasp. There’s a high-pitched sound, and it takes you a few seconds to realize that it's coming from you, an agonized whine that pierces the unbearable quiet.

 _Breathe. Just fuckin’ breathe_.

You can’t.

 _I can’t. I can’t live like this_.

Breathe. In and out.

 _I can’t live without them_.

You don’t know how long she’s been watching you. You don’t know when, but she arrives, sitting gingerly on the bench at your side. You don’t drive her away. You grab at her, pulling her into a rough embrace, short, screaming sobs ripping their way out of you. She must be terrified, but you can’t stop yourself. You don’t know how.

_How can I?_


End file.
